Just Because
by boldly
Summary: It's the only answer he has to a question that shouldn't be as complex as he makes it.


Prompts come to me at the strangest times. But this at least has reminded me that I _can_ write. So to speak.  
And just to be safe, there are no real spoilers, unless you haven't watched the first part of season six - but if you don't care, then go right ahead!

-o-

Sam asked him once (not _his_ Sam … but the _thing_ that wore his face and spoke with the same soft tone of his voice … though it was flat, emotionless, just like the rest of him) a question that he should have known the answer to right off the bat. Without even thinking about it, no second guesses, no _nothing_. But as it stood, _this_ Sam (not his Sam … _never_ his Sam) kept throwing him for a loop, making every thought stutter to a halt in that might-as-well-be-broken, cluttered-as-all-hell brain of his. It was commonplace, now, to let a single strain of thought stretch on for hours. Even longer if he had a bottle of Wild Turkey on the nightstand to help him pick through it.

"Why are you trying so hard?"

It might have been the way he'd asked it … the way those hazel eyes were just as hollow as they had been since he'd taken the time to actually look that close – the kind of hollowness that had him thinking, more often than not, _goddamn it, Sam, are you even still in there at all? Am I ever gonna get you back? _The kind of hollowness that felt like a pound of lead sitting square in the middle of his chest, threatening to break a rib every time he tried to take a breath. But that was all right … because he'd since learned to breathe in short bursts, gasps that hurt more than they did any good. It was doing the trick, mostly. Save for when his lungs _burned_.

"_Why are you trying so hard?"_

Dean didn't think he'd ever been so profoundly stumped by such a simple question in all his life. And for what it was worth, he'd had an answer sitting on the tip of his tongue that he'd ended up swallowing, adding to that pile of lead that was beginning to feel more a part of him than his own heart.

Or maybe that _was_ his heart, and he just hadn't noticed. Hell, he didn't know. And right now, Dean Winchester could fill a book with all the shit he didn't know.

_Why have I always tried so hard?_

He thought about that for a second. A multitude of answers to _that_ cropped up without him even having to think about it. No second guesses, no _nothing_.

_Because you're my brother_.

The blood that tied them. It had been more than reason enough to let himself be dragged to the pits of hell, just to bring his brother back from something that had _never_ been his doing, his fault. Or maybe that was the driving force behind another reason … which, if he'd thought about it, should have been the first.

_Because goddamn it, I love you_.

And he did. Even if he could never quite say it, because that would _fuck it up_ somehow – there had never been words for it. (Sam had always been good with words. Always had a word for _something_. Dean just didn't get it.) It had just always been _anything for Sammy, whatever he needs, whatever keeps him happy_. Because Sam made him selfless. Or maybe it was _selfish_, and he'd never seen it, just because all he'd ever needed was the way his brother smiled.

Which brought him to the next one.

_Because I hate what you are now_.

That _wasn't_ his brother. That wasn't the same Sam that had been all long arms and legs until he was seventeen, and then they'd gotten even _longer_, but somehow he'd managed to grow into them. That wasn't the same Sam that had been too damn shy to talk to a girl he liked in middle school, even when Dean had been there, badgering him left and right to just _say something, damn it_, and it would go from there. That wasn't the same Sam that had crawled into his brother's bed when he was six years old because he'd sworn up and down he'd heard something in his closet, and refused to go _back_ to it even after Dean had checked and double-checked and _triple_-checked everything in that room. Top to bottom.

That wasn't the same Sam that had wrapped himself around his brother like a lifeline in his sleep, whether he'd known it or not, and the thought of it alone made Dean's chest tighten to the point where it hurt to even _try_ to breathe, in short bursts or not –

_Because I hate that _I hate_ what you are now._

Hate was … a very _strong_ word, even for Dean Winchester. He didn't use it often, unless the situation _really_ called for it, but he _hated_ the thing that wore his brother's face. Hated that it smiled like him, even if there was no real emotion behind it – hated that it could mimic every little nuance down to the way he picked through a _salad_, the fucking _bastard_ – and he thought he hated, more than anything, looking at him and wondering if he really would have the gall to take a knife to his throat and end the whole thing.

Because … when he thought about it … there was nothing in him that said he was strong enough.

_Because … _

_Because I can't do this without you, Sammy. _

_I can't do any of this without you._

The facts were simple: he _needed_ Sam. Needed him just as much as he needed to take that next breath, that next _life-sustaining breath_ that would keep him from choking on his own tongue, dry and stuck to the roof of his mouth like a slug on the sidewalk in the middle of summer. And even now, _especially_ now, he would have been willing to sell his soul all over again if it meant his brother could get his back.

That he would be whole.

That he would be _Sam_ again.

That was all the reason he needed. He didn't need to _explain_ it, much less to the shell that didn't know the meaning of the word _devotion. Loyalty. Brother. _

_Love. _

Even if Dean didn't understand it most of the time himself, it didn't make it any less valid.

"Because," he finally answered, weeks after the-thing-that-was-not-Sam had asked the initial question. (_Not his Sam. Never his Sam._) And the thing that wore his brother's face like a mask picked his head up, eyes curious, calculating. _Waiting_ for that answer as though it had only just been asked, to file it away in the depths of a mind that still didn't know what it was to _smile_ without being as fake as the rack on the waitress at the diner they'd eaten at the night before.

He'd never wanted to hit anything so badly in his life.

"Just because."


End file.
